


It's All The Glory That I Bear (I Am My Hair)

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hair, Joys of Small Children, Self-Acceptance, Trials of Long Hair, elves are weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allowing your hair to find its own length may be the elven way. That doesn't mean it is always easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All The Glory That I Bear (I Am My Hair)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my very own Arwen Laurefindel.
> 
> Title from Hair - Lady Gaga
> 
> Set around the year 255 TA, so well before The Lay of Glorfindel and Erestor, in case anyone is confused.

“I hate it, hate it, hate it,” she is working herself into a tantrum, “I hate my hair, I hate you brushing it, I hate the brush, hate combing, hate it, hate it, and you hate me or you wouldn’t do it, you hate me, you hate me, you are just doing it because you hate me, I hate you.”

This could go on for a while.

I sigh, and I wish we had arranged to have this discussion in my office, not in his. Patient and unperturbed as ever, Erestor looks up at the ceiling for a moment, and then back to me,

“Poor Arwen,” he says, “one forgets being an elfling. It does seem a shame – her hair is so very long – you would think it would be sensible to keep it shorter until she is old enough to appreciate it.”

I look at him in horror, speechless.

“After all,” he goes on, not reading my silence, “it is only hair. Even for elves, we are not defined by our hair. She could grow it when she is a bit older, able to cope with it – ”

“She is an elf,” I cut in, I cannot hear more of this, “elves do not cut their hair. Ever. Your hair is – is you. You – Erestor, mellon-nin – tell me you have not – you have never cut another’s hair?”

Suddenly I am filled with dread – I have liked this elf. Over the centuries, I thought we had built a friendship – but – if he can speak so, then perhaps I do not know him at all. For the first time, I wonder – where is he from – his people – who are they? What do I know not of him?

Or – or is this another of those changes which at times are so overwhelming I want to hide, to turn away, ride back to the harbour and sail West once more, admitting defeat, admitting I cannot learn to live in this strange world?

I thought I was past that now, thought I had made my peace with the new ways, learnt to accept what I must, keep my traditions in my heart and live by their rules.

He shrugs, uncaring it seems,

“No, I have not. I am not sure I could. But then – I do not have an elfling screaming at me every day,” he sighs, and I am not sure, for a moment, whether he sighs because the child screams, or because he has neither elfling nor hope of elfling, unvowed, unmarried as we both are, “I was simply trying to be practical. Perhaps you are right, and of course, peredhel must needs be more elvish than elves, at times.”

I nod, briskly, and we turn back to the matter in hand – but the conversation leaves a strange taste in my mouth, and I do not linger, do not pass a while in idle talk. 

It is some days even before I can begin to act as though he had not spoken so, months before I can forgive him for his words.

“We are not defined by our hair.”

You may not be, Erestor.

I think I have always been.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%

 

 

“I hate it, hate it, hate it,” I whisper to myself, “I hate my hair, I hate you brushing it, I hate the brush, hate combing, hate it, hate it, and you hate me or you wouldn’t do it, you hate me, you hate me, you are just doing it because you hate me, I hate you.”

It does not help.

I know the words are not true.

I do not hate my parents, I love them, and I know they love me.

But – I hate that my hair is all anyone sees.

Laurefindel.

Calwelaure.

You would think, I tell myself, bitterly, that two such intelligent elves would have been able to come up with a better choice of names. Mother-name and father-name to speak of the same thing.

I am not the only Noldor with such hair.

Surely.

It is not my fault, it is not my choice.

When I am grown, I think to myself, I will be famous for something else. I will make a name for myself, such that everyone will remember my deeds, not merely my hair.

Night after night I promise myself this.

Morning after morning I wake, and I feel the knots, and I – I ignore them. I hope they will go. I wash, I run water through my hair, it feels clean, and easy.

I smooth it into place.

And when I go to greet my parents, to wish them good-day, before my lessons, before they – do whatever it is parents do all day – one of them notices.

And sighs.

And leads me back upstairs by the hand, and shows me the hairbrush, and shows me my reflection in the mirror, and asks me,

“Do you really think you can go out among decent elves like that?”

And I shake my head, and keep my eyes downward, and wait for the brushing to begin again.

Twice – once to each of them – I have the courage to answer,

“Yes. It is clean, it is only hair, surely – surely it does not matter so much? Not once? Not when it is not a feast day?”

My mother – is furious. I am, apparently, no better than – than a creation of Aule – and I do not really know what she means, but it must be a very bad thing to be, a creature lacking in all honour and beauty.

I bow my head, and she brushes my hair with harsh, hard strokes. I do not let my eyes water – I am an elf, I have control over all myself. All save my hair.

When I say the same to my father – he smiles ruefully at me, and shakes his head,

“If only it were that simple,” he says, and then, “but do not go around saying such things. Elves have long memories, and one day – one day little one, you will wish to marry, and to comb, and words like that will come back to haunt you.”

I do not really understand what he means. I cannot imagine I will ever be in love – not as my parents are in love, not as elves in tales are in love – that is not – not something I would ever want, to be so – soft. But – he is no less firm than mother, there is no point in arguing further, I learnt that long ago.

I bow my head again, and he brushes my hair – kindly, I think, trying to pick out the knots gently, individually – but – in truth, it hurts worse than when Amme is impatient, and it takes so much longer.

I hate my hair.

 

 

I am an elf, I am supposed to enjoy combing and being combed.

I do – when there is someone to comb with me. 

Often my parents will – but – I know they comb together, without me, and – this combing with me is something they do merely to please me. I cannot help but wonder if they wish I would – run along and leave them be.

I have no siblings.

I am of the age now where many comb with friends – but – always there is that suspicion that they want only to comb with me because they have never seen such hair.

I do not like being a curiosity.

I am too proud.

I will become someone they all want to comb with for who I am, for my renown, for my deeds, I tell myself again.

I will be famous for something that is not my hair.

 

 

 

“I hate my hair,” I say under my breath, “I hate it, hate it, hate it. Why is it so – so bloody long? Why cannot it choose to stop at a sensible length? I wish to be a warrior, not an artist, not a musician, not some pen-pushing clerk. I hate my hair.”

It is not easy, to learn to wield a sword, a spear, a bow, every weapon a knight must use. It is not easy to learn to clean and don armour in the short time that is necessary in an emergency. It is not easy to learn to care for one’s horse, as a knight should do.

It is even harder when you have waist-length unruly hair.

I tie it back, of course I tie it back, I braid it as tightly and restrictively as I am allowed – yet still it wriggles free and twines itself around things.

Sheds itself behind me.

Becomes caught up in my clothes, in my armour. 

Under me, around me, as I fight, as I mount my horse. It tangles with my bowstring, and sends my arrows awry. It catches on my spear as I throw. I lean forward, rising to stay in balance with my horse as we take a jump – and my hair swings and catches when we land. 

I am so conscious of it, I begin to think I would be better to accept I am not to be a warrior.

At home, with Atto, it mattered little. He understood I cannot help it, and he never commented.

But now – now I am of an age to join in learning such things with other elves – and – all of them have neat, well-behaved, well-groomed, tidily braided, proper Noldor-dark hair.

I hate them for it.

Barely a day passes without some comment.

“We could hardly take Laurefindel on a night attack, his hair would show up.”  
“Laurefindel would lead pursuers to us, his hair catches on trees, he would leave a trail for any tracker to find.”  
“Laurefindel lets down the group, his hair is not proper.”  
“Laurefindel cannot use a bow, his hair tangles with the string.”  
“Laurefindel still cannot throw a javelin straight, his hair spoils his aim.”  
“Laurefindel cannot even ride gracefully, his hair is so – excessive.”  
“Laurefindel,” they say, mock-kindly, “do you really think this is the right path for you? Your hair suggests you are not meant for such rough pursuits.”

I glare.

And any adult elf thinks I look sweet, with golden curls, and big blue eyes.

I hate them.

I will not let my hair dictate my life.

I will do as I wish.

I will be a warrior. I will make my name for something – some great deed of valour – and then they will all be sorry they laughed.

Every night I vow it again.

Every day I practice. Over and over. I work harder than any of the others, I know I do – and I resent more than ever the time my hair takes to care for. Every moment spent combing, washing, brushing out the tangles, braiding, arranging it – every moment is a moment lost from learning the things I want – need – to know.

I will do this.

I will be what I wish to be.

I will be a warrior.

My hair will not dictate my life. I will not be known forever by my hair alone.

My parents support me. They help me practice, they watch me, they encourage me – and they help me try new ways to control my hair.

It makes little difference – but – I am glad of them.

They do not think I am sweet.

 

 

“I hate my hair,” I say to my reflection, and I hold it up, away from my face, I try to imagine how I would look with sensible, normal hair. “I could cut it.”

Even saying it – I know it is wrong. I feel guilt.

It is almost the worst thing an elf can do – so I have been taught. I – I do not know what could be worse, I suppose – to cut another’s hair, perhaps?

But – the thought – of being free of it. Never having to wash it, brush it, comb it, braid it, feel the weight swing behind me, feel the length of it caught up in clothes. The thought of feeling the sun on the back of my neck, of being – free.

The chill of wind.

The cold rain.

The guilt.

The shame.

The knowledge that I had rejected the Valar to act so.

Everyone would know what I had done.

They would stare at me, even more than they do now.

I will never be free of it.

I hate my hair.

 

 

 

“I hate my hair,” I say, and the group looks at me as though I am mad, “I do, I hate it. It is so – peculiar.”

They laugh, and each of them lists, without stopping to think, all the things about themselves, body or fea, that they hate.

One is too short, one too fat, one too dark, one too envious, one not tuneful enough, one not skilled in poetry writing – and why, I wonder, why would he wish to be – one too fond of teasing, none are perfect in their own eyes. 

It helps, a little.

And when we comb, I find – for the first time – I find many of them wish to comb me, to feel how – peculiar – my hair is. 

“You may call it peculiar,”  
“We call it – special,”  
“Beautiful,”  
“Unusual,”  
“Calwelaure,” one says, using the name I rarely admit to, preferring the bland description of the other.

I do not really believe them, but – it is good to have friends who will try to comfort me. 

“It does take a long while to comb, though,” one adds, thoughtfully.

“Nice,”  
“Mmm, more – drawn out,”  
“Lucky you,”  
“To be combed for so long, and – and it does not hold its braids,”  
“So it needs be done again soon.”  
“And again,”  
“Mmm. Lovely.”

I had never considered that.

Oh.

Well.

Lucky me.

And I am passed around the whole group.

Lucky, lucky me.

 

 

Laurefindel it is, then. 

Perhaps I do not hate my hair.

For many years, I do not. It is as it is. It flows free as it will, and I – I forget my vows to make my name great.

I become a warrior, I love the life, I am happy.

Time passes, things change, even for elves, things change.

I learn there are actions that are worse even than the cutting of hair.

I lose my parents, and the only consolation is that they went together, no more separated in death than they ever were in life.

I miss them.

We – those of us that are left – translate our names. Our king is insistent, and I become Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.

I am not entirely sure I like it, but – it is but a name. 

I am still a warrior, I am wealthy, renowned, I have friends, I need never look far for someone eager to comb me.

I am happy.

 

 

Until the day my hair betrays me, and I fall.

 

 

When I ride through the streets of Mithlond, those first times, I feel the eyes upon me, and for once, for once, I know it is not my hair of which they think, it is not my hair that makes me famous.

Easily recognised by it, perhaps.

But now – now it is indeed my actions that are remembered.

And I find – I wish it was merely my hair that they looked at, not the curiosity that has elves watching me as I move, as I stretch, as I bathe, to see if I am scarred, to see if I am different in any way from them, so many of them born this side of the Sea.

I flick my hair, and it distracts them, it conceals my thoughts.

I love my hair.

I suppose I could take a new name, a new name for a new life, and now – now that I could choose a name to reflect my deeds, now that I could be whoever I wish to be – so long as I wish to be a warrior, a hero – now I find that perhaps my parents did indeed know best.

Glorfindel.

I will keep my name translated, for these new elves.

But I will not change myself.

My hair is as it is, as it always was.

I am who I am.

Noldor, golden, warrior.

 

%%%%%%%%%

 

 

“I hate it, hate it, hate it,” she is working herself into a tantrum, “I hate my hair, I hate you brushing it, I hate the brush, hate combing, hate it, hate it, and you hate me or you wouldn’t do it, you hate me, you hate me, you are just doing it because you hate me, I hate you. It’s not fair, Elladan and Elrohir do not have such long hair, their hair does not hurt them, it’s not fair, you hate me, you only do it to upset me.”

Again.

Poor little Arwen.

This time, as chance would have it, I am not in Erestor’s office, not out of sight, I am, unfortunately, walking with my lord past her room when she begins it. 

I try to ignore it and carry on, because – well, because I know that is what my mother – and indeed my father – would have preferred any visitor to do in the days when I was a loud and tangled elfling. 

However, rules change, it seems.

My lord stops in his path, and beckons me through the open door.

I do not think I have ever been in an elleth’s chamber before. It occurs to me to wonder whether Arwen chose the elaborate curtains, and flounces, and lace – or the stacks of books and battered toys strewn across the floor, many of which I recognise from all the times I have seen them hurtle down stairs or over lawns, propelled by her or her brothers.

“Arwen!” my lord is not as cross as he might be, I notice, certainly there is none of the loving fierceness of rebuke my father would have shown had I disgraced him so loudly, “Arwen, stop a minute, and listen.”

Remarkably, she does.

My lord is obviously practiced at this – as well he might be by now.

“Arwen,” he continues, kneeling down to her level, “look. Here is Glorfindel. Look at his hair. See how long it is, and you never hear him making a fuss about brushing it, do you?”

She looks at me, and I look back.

“His hair is pretty hair,” she says, sulkily, “it doesn’t tangle.”

I cannot help it, I laugh. She glares at me, and so, I daresay, do her parents. But I – I sit down cross-legged before her, and I say,

“My lady, believe me, my hair tangles,” I reach out with one finger, and wait for her nod of permission before touching her hair, carefully stroking down it, “yes,” I say, “you have proper Noldor hair, proper elven hair. Let it grow to find its length, learn to braid it – and you will never wish it different. It will learn not to tangle, in time.”

She looks at me, solemnly, and then,

“Dan and Ro say long hair is why I cannot ride and hunt and swim with them.”

I can feel an exchange of glances going on above my head – I think this is news to her parents.

“Well,” I tell her, “that is interesting. I taught them to ride, and hunt, and swim – my hair never stopped me doing anything I wanted to. Although,” I smile with one corner of my mouth, “it is a fine reason for not doing the things I dislike. You will notice master Erestor never has me copying out his letters and contracts – my hair does have a tendency to smudge boring things like that.”

She grins, and I know I have made my friend’s life just a little more difficult. That will teach him to suggest things like cutting elflings’ hair.

I reach out one hand, and I take the brush her mother puts in it, and I begin, carefully, firmly, to sort out the mess that is her hair.

“You stand still while I do this,” I say, “and then – then it is perhaps time that my lady came to meet the horses she will be learning to ride soon enough. Hunting we will come to when you can ride, and swimming – I think perhaps that would be more enjoyable in the summer.” We are not wild Silvans, to plunge into near-freezing rivers. 

Her hair is dreadful.

It takes a long while.

And seeing the horses takes longer.

But – it seems now that I will not marry, I will not have an elfling of my own as my parents always said I would – so – these three children of my lord, I had best enjoy their company.

“This is my Asfaloth,” I say, “come, give him an apple, and then – then we will ride.”

I watch as she offers the apple, as my friend takes it carefully, avoiding her fingers with his usual courtesy, and then I take her up with me. She is not afraid, she is her brothers’ sister, this one, no fear, no sense at all.

“I will not let you fall,” I say, and I do not know why I bother, she is not in need of reassurance, “Asfaloth will not let you fall.”

She nods against me, and then, 

“Faster. And – jump. Much faster, higher, more.”

Oh I am looking forward to taking this one out hunting. She will be riding my horse when I am not looking before I know it.

Worse than her brothers.

It is a good ride, and after, she is glowing with pleasure.

I show her how to thank Asfaloth, give him water, rub him down, brush out his mane. She watches, and then – she is a clever little thing – says,

“You brush him as you brushed my hair.”

“Yes,” I say, “it is not so very different. Hold it all up in one hand, brush underneath and let it fall down in clumps, hanging free,” I smile at her in collusion, “mind, you might not want to mention that to those with shorter hair. Especially those you wish to comb – the words do not please. But – the action does.”

She is a bit young to understand that, but perhaps she will remember. It is true.

Even master Erestor enjoys having his hair brushed and combed out like that.

“You are an elf,” I tell Arwen, as I leave her, grubby and smelling of horse, to go and wash and make herself presentable for the lunch table, “your hair is who you are. Hair matters to us. We are not as mortals, our hair is not lightly cut, nor changed.”

She nods, and I watch her walk away, long hair swishing proudly.

For a moment, I wish I was a father. But the Valar never sent me one to love, one to marry – there is too much work to do, I suppose. I sigh.

And then I remember – were I married, I would not have a choice of whom to comb with tonight. 

Here in Imladris, we do not see many Sindar. My hair is sought after, and so am I, famous as I am for looks and deeds.

I love my hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Calwelaure - Beautiful Gold.  
> Atto - daddy  
> Amme - mummy
> 
> It has been pointed out to me, by my beloved beta, that it is unlikely that the elves Glorfindel grew up among would have heard of dwarves. All I can say, is that he clearly hasn't (& comments like this may well help to account for his later dislike of them), but his mother is obviously a very clever lady.
> 
> as for Asfaloth - I don't know how long elven horses live, or if they are different from normal ones, but - I suspect Glorfindel is the type to try & have every horse pretty similar, with the same name - apart from anything else, it would make life easier over the centuries.....


End file.
